My mother is like a lightbulb,She makes her mistakesShe burns and she brightensAnd then she breaks.-My mother is like a lightbulbShe brightens the roomBut make no mistake,She can darken one too,-My mother is like a lightbulb She blunders and criesBut don't think she's harmlessIt's a well crafted disguise-But regardless of it allSomeone gets hurtPalms are cut open And fingers are burnt-And yet, my mother is unlike a lightbulb,Because broken lightbulbsare replaced.

I wish she was different, but I try not to regretso I guess,I'll take what I can get.

I keep remembering that you have been the only oneThat I could still daydream about being just a thoughtIn your otherwise always busy mind

I wonder if ever a tornado lands and you look for shelterOnly to remember that you once saw land upon the horizonMy own rusting tankard that looked like the shadow of oasis

I hope that you can remember what could have been on the shores of the TitanicThat all the years on the dry deck could have tasted less salty than the seaAnd the exposure will feel so warm on your skin that it leaves burns

Do you ever reread a poem after something happens to you that you wrote about a different situation and the situation happens again and you're just like "didn't I write it down so I could process and not repeat?" but **** like you repeat

The junction where smoke and fog reside,gliding with western winds beneath these clouds,the moon fades perilously from sightand it rains ash. A thousand candle wicks are pinchedas the scent of acres burn,lit like the flames we blow out so easy.Control is a funny word,like when a doctor says, "She'll be fine, I've got this",the arborist cries observing only skeletal remains,as his patient has deceased having control to blame.

As the moon shinesAnd the stars decorate the sky,A lonely owl hymnsWhile the bats fly.Lightning bugs scatter aroundLike will-o'-the-wisps at night,Without any soundOh, what a delight!The neighbour's hound is on guardShe will not allow anyone to pass,No one is allowed in her yardAt this hour, only a fool will walk on her grass.Her howl pierces the airBringing an end to the silence,She announces she won't shareShe will not tolerate any form of violence.Across the street, few floors above Two players are taking their turns,In the famous game of push and shoveWhile a tiny candle burns.